


Survivor

by UnderCoverMarsupial



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dark, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Phasma is struggling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, this is strictly TFA compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderCoverMarsupial/pseuds/UnderCoverMarsupial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Triggers are not just for show. This is dark.<br/>Phasma after Starkiller is blown up. This is basically a treatise on survivor's guilt. This is the realistic portrayal of what Phasma did and what the consequences will be. It's Disney so they won't do this. But Phasma is in deep shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivor

Phasma 

Every morning she woke up and picked up the knowledge of her sin like a stone she had to carry. Every night somehow her dreams convinced her that the sin itself was a dream, that she was still who she had been, strong, capable, a leader of men. The relief was so intense that she wept, or laughed- and in so doing, woke up and learned the truth again. Her actions, and hers alone, had killed all her men, her friends, everyone she cared about. Every morning she woke up and had to relearn the impossible truth- she was alive and they were not. And it was her fault.

Sometimes her dreams were bad, when her mind acknowledged the sin, and the stink of garbage would fill her nostrils. She would again be on the escape ship, rattling and bouncing in the hold with a few other survivors, slime dripping from her armor, listening to the weeping and terrified babbling of the men around her.

No one knew. No one knew that she had given the codes to the traitor and his smuggler friends. The codes had brought the shields down and Starkiller had been destroyed. All her men, most of her friends (Hux had survived at least) all dead because of her. That the traitor had threatened her life seemed laughable. _She should have died_ before giving those codes. My god _she hadn’t even fought_. She hadn’t even fired her weapon, or shouted for help. She hadn’t simply refused and _let them shoot her_. That they would have gotten the codes from somewhere else didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have been _her_. And she would be dead, and the sin would be on someone else. She replayed the scene a thousand times in her mind, this time simply saying “no” and knowing that she had died doing her duty, died clean. She would give anything, anything in all the worlds, her very _soul_ , to go back and die then.

Dying now seemed pointless, an indulgence she wasn’t permitted. Her suffering was so acute, so agonizing, that it felt justified. She had earned every drop of this pain, earned every second of shallow breath, knowing she lived while they had died. It was a punishment she had earned. In some ways she relished the pain, flogged herself with it, her self-loathing descending to depths she didn’t think possible. She was less than dust, lower than the lowest creature.

She wandered the halls of their secondary facility in a daze, the knowledge of her sin hanging on her like the smell of garbage. She couldn’t even see the others, the soldiers, commanders. She attended briefings, caught glimpses of Hux, his face stricken, his hair graying at the temples. She couldn’t stand to even look at him. Of Kylo Ren there was no sign, for which she was grateful. The hateful boy would have known immediately, would see her sin on her like a glowing sign.

Sometimes she wished they did know- that she could be accused, fingers pointed. She wished she could be beaten, cut, flayed for what she had done. But here cowardice asserted itself, and she remained silent, hating herself even more for her inability to face punishment.

There was a memorial ceremony she had been forced to attend, where the names of the different units had been called out to the tolling of the ship’s bell. The dead were so many that there was no point in calling names or designations. Just the names of entire units. Third Fist: Wildcats, Fifth Signal Battalion: Firedemons, 75th artillery: The Rancors. Hundred and Second Storm Trooper Division: Thunderbolts. Third Special Forces Battalion: Hellraisers. At this last the room became distorted and strange, the ringing in her ears shrill and terrible. She held herself up, listened as the litany of units went on, but Hellraisers, Hellraisers, Hellraisers, played like a dirge in her head. Her boys. Every one of them a veteran. Every face known and loved. Their names and designations crowded through her mind, FN 8745, FN 3356, JB007, FN 2188, Gunner 87, Gunner 23, Sergeant Cole, Sergeant Mez… She shook her head hard, forcing herself back into her body. The chaplain was finishing the traditional service: “And so we commit their bodies to the void, to rise again in the Hall of Warriors on the last day.”

She walked away from the ceremony, her face grave and calm, nodding occasionally to the few people she knew. They passed like ghosts. They were from _before_. The survivors were the only people she could see, and she shunned them, certain that if they saw her they would _know_ , they would somehow _see_ that it had been her.

What else could she do now? She carried on every day, knowing that she was dead, but unable to stop living. Her face became a mask, as hard as her armor. She even managed to speak with Hux, developing some plans to seek out the resistance. Hux also seemed strangely stiff and subdued. Their eyes met and they recognized the same pain, and quickly looked away from it. After that they made sure not to attend the same briefings, communicating solely over commlink.

Her nights shifted, her mind no longer able to deny what had happened, instead it replayed the scenes over and over, she was helpless to stop it. Just the moment of agreeing, of giving the codes, and then the door to the garbage chute opening. Again, and again and _again_ …

She was the only one who didn’t question when Hux killed himself. He was in a briefing, another endless planning session with his shiny new staff. One moment he was reviewing their notes, the next he had stood up and walked out of the room. The heard the blaster fire from his quarters but sat frozen for several minutes before daring to send in a droid. How she envied him!

When Hux killed himself a spate of other survivors did the same. As if he had given them permission to let go, to stop fighting. The temptation made her mouth water. She lay awake thinking about it. How would she do it? With her blaster? In one of the airlocks? There were many choices. She would catch herself reveling in the idea, her body frozen in anticipation, the need almost erotic as she pictured just… letting go. The relief would be exquisite.

For a brief time, the temptation became so strong that it parched her throat, made her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. She had overheard an old trooper telling a younger not to fear death. _When you die, you get to go back to your happiest days, and live there forever._ Even as her rational, scientific mind knew it wasn’t true and dismissed the idea as ridiculous, a tiny part of her brain wouldn’t let it go. If it was true, then she would be back on Starkiller. She and the Hellraisers who had survived the fighting on Centauri would be draped all over couches in the ready room, telling jokes, singing songs. Hux would be there, with his former unit, sneaking away from his duties as general. They’d close the door against the new recruits and toss their rank insignia aside and just be happy. How she had laughed those nights! Playing cards with Hux and Cole and Mez, with JB007 snarking at all of them and taking all their credits at poker. She remembered his blue eyes, crinkled with laughter as they cursed his luck.

But she didn’t deserve that. She hadn’t earned the right to go back to those days. If she deserved release she would have been given it on Starkiller. If she couldn’t die with her boys, in a blaze of blaster fire, then she deserved to live forever, dragging her pain along behind her in chains. Every survivor funeral service she attended made it more clear. These deaths too were on her head. She had to carry them as well.

When the emergency medical team began rounding up survivors to stem the flow of suicides, she had honestly told them that she wouldn’t, even _couldn’t_ kill herself. She deserved to live. She was twenty-nine years old. By current lifespans she would live another fifty or sixty years. The future stretched before her as a trial to be endured, a burden to be carried. And every night she dreamed…


End file.
